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Every year it's the same old shit. Netherworld. Chamber of Horrors. Atlanta Zombie Apocalypse. Six Flags Fright Fest. Over -priced, with long lines, and underwhelming. You do it almost every Halloween: plan a trip with a gaggle of sissies to go qween out at these haunted houses.

It has started to feel a little redundant here in the Atlanta haunted house department, so I decided to take matters into my own hands and pull out a trick I had been holding up my sleeve for YEARS to offer as an alternative for my friends. That trick was Camp Blood, an hour and fifteen minutes away from the city and deep on outskirts of Carrollton, Georgia. They were SOLD.

See, back when I was a teen, Camp Blood was the SHIT and it DELIVERED. You want to be scared, well, what's more terrifying to any faggot than being chased a 1/2 mile through the woods by haunted hillbillies and dead rednecks, aka the people who would LOVE to kill us. Nothing is scarier than white people and we would be walking targets looking all kinds of queer. You know we went in cute lewks. It didn't take much convincing and our group of six made the journey out into bigot territory. Oh, and I was SURE to bring my bottle of Jungle Juice that I purchased at The Heretic.

The drive alone is enough to get you squirming. It gets country REAL quick once you get past Six Flags, the point of no return. Once you do finally get close to Camp Blood, you are driving down winding dark roads through forests and farm land. Dimly lit, hard to see, hand-painted signs with arrows point the way. The terror level rises as you suddenly realize that you have poor cell phone service as you arrive at a slanted, hilly cow pasture to park your car. The parking situation is a spooky scene of its own. Loud with incoherent twang, the parking pasture was littered with high school cheerleaders and their west Georgia college frat boyfriends having a moment of tailgating culture, drunk off Four Lokos, Bud Lites and bad weed before making the journey into Camp Blood. It was like being in a foreign country. Are these people even speaking English? It was also safe to say that meth was probably floating around out there as well. In the spirit of queer tailgating culture, I immediately got the social popper pass around started.

It was literally all downhill from there. No, forreal. High on poppers, our group swirled down this big hill in the woods towards the screams and sounds of Camp Blood where you purchase your tickets.

We were greeted by Michelle. No words needed. Just see the photo:

This was going to be EVERYTHINGGGGG.

They led us through a gate, gave us a card with the letter "A" on it and sent us into this open social area to hang while we waited for our letter to be called. This scene had it ALL! For one, NO MORE LINES!

This was a big change since the last time I had been here. This space was like a spooky forest carnival, complete with a fire pit, very nice out-houses to do your meth in, a gift shop that only sold lukewarm Dr. Peppers, and EVEN a "Fortun' Tellin'" palm reader named MawMaw who told me I would make a good husband and have at least one child (if I didn't have one already). Um. WAY off. . . sort of. It's possible I could have a child somewhere out there. IDK.

The carnival waiting area had sick lighting, heavy fog, lasers, a cute spooky soundtrack, and once we paired the ambiance with poppers, we were all convinced that the space was one DJ booth and about 200 faggots away from being a CUNT party.

Then they called the letter "A." We were off!

We all took the vow before going in. We were going to do this 1/2 mile journey completely on poppers. We had NO IDEA what we were getting ourselves into.

In short, the experience is everything. It's scary, and it's got gag after gag after gag. It's like a Ninja Warrior obstacle course with lots of running and screaming. However, this would become more about the poppers than Camp Blood.

Not even five minutes into the camp, as we were being chased down a narrow pitch black room that is closing in on us into a small space we have to crawl through, the top of the poppers falls to the ground, and poppers spilt all over us. We try our best to find the top but we are scrambling and being chased by a chainsaw at the same time. We had to let it go and now it was up to our thumbs to keep the poppers going.

You think your bottle of poppers rolling under the bed or getting lost in the sheets is a nightmare? BITCH. This was the most difficult thing I've ever done in my LIFE! We swirled our entire way through every obstacle course they served us and this thing kept on and ON AND ON!!! When would it end??? We couldn't see shit. We had no idea what was going on. We were falling, running into things, moving our bodies in ways we never thought possible, and we did it ALL without losing what was left of that bottle.

But we made it. As we walked up the hill back to our car, in tears from how unbelievably hilarious that experience was, we symbolically poured the remains of the poppers out on the road as libations and tossed the empty bottle to the side of the road, forever to serve as a shrine to our legendary survival of Camp Blood.